


Nothing Like You and I

by Celyan



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: First Dates, First Kiss, Flirty James Bond, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Oblivious Q, Post-Skyfall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 10:59:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17202239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celyan/pseuds/Celyan
Summary: Wherein Bond takes Q out for lunch on what may or may not be a date.





	Nothing Like You and I

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic I have been agonising over (for various reasons) for the past weeks, even when it technically has been written since the end of October. I really wanted to get it over and done with before the year ends, though, so here it is. 
> 
> Lots of thanks to my betas azure7539 and SandyWormbook as well as the lovely people in 00Q Slack (especially Lin, Opal, Midra and Ven) for all the help you gave me when I needed it the most. Without you this fic would have been a big mess.

It all starts with a light, casual touch against his arm, fingertips running down the sleeve of his cardigan; a touch perfectly constructed as innocent and unassuming, but fooling exactly no one who sees it.

It is rather fortunate that they are alone in his office at the time.

In retrospect, Q would have liked to blame his lack of experience in interpersonal dalliances for his failure to recognise the intentions behind Bond’s antics. But that would be an easy excuse. Indeed, he had been distracted the better part of the afternoon with some particularly interesting bit of tech and was only partly paying attention to anything else.

So instead, he blinks and turns to face Bond, taking the touch as a reasonable effort to try and gain his attention for surely he has missed the verbal one that must have preceded it. 

”Yes, 007?” he says. ”Was there something you needed?” 

Bond looks at him and nods, a hint of a smile on his lips. ”Yes,” he replies, ”you.”

”Perhaps you’d care to be more specific?” Q asks, thinking back to Bond’s earlier visit that morning. Bond had stopped by there to be outfitted for a mission, and Q knows he had given him everything on the mission list, but then again Bond has always liked to push for something extra. ”Surely there isn’t something wrong with your kit already?”

Bond remains quiet and motionless, considering; Q gets the feeling he is being assessed and has been found wanting. He frowns. ”I do not have any prototypes for you to test this time, either, if that is what you mean.” 

”I see,” Bond says and, after a moment, tells him that he has a plane to catch. Q watches him leave, shrugs and turns back to his work table. Within minutes, he is back to focusing on his tech, the puzzling encounter already mostly forgotten. 

*

Bond doesn’t touch him again until three months and five missions later. 

Q doesn’t think about the whole thing during those months, really. He spends his days buried in various projects, guiding agents through situations he would rather not think about if given half a chance, and cuddling with his cats in front of the telly with what little time he has in the evenings. His thoughts are on MI-6, his projects, his cats and even the meager social life he’s managed to salvage, and there really isn’t any reason for him to think of agent Bond outside of work, even fleetingly. 

*

Bond comes to Q Branch on his day off dressed in one of his bespoke suits, looking like he belongs in some private office elsewhere in the city rather than in this dimness of the lower levels of MI-6.

Having spent the better part of his morning underneath the Aston Martin he has been tinkering with whenever he has a spare moment, Q is not expecting company. Eve might decide to come and drag him out for lunch, but even that should still give him an hour or two of more time to focus on his work. Apparently, no one has seen fit to tell Bond this, however, and finding him standing there next to the hood of the car, silent as a statue and twice as regal, gives Q something of a fright when he deems it important to straighten up and have a stretch.

He would like to pretend that the yelp that had undoubtedly escaped his mouth at the sight of Bond was quiet enough that the agent did not hear it, but he is enough of a realist to know when to concede defeat. 

”007! Would you mind making a bit of noise next time?” Q asks, heart thudding inside his chest as he uses a hand to smooth down the front of his overalls. ”I was under the impression that I was on my own here and, therefore, did not expect to see anyone standing there.”

Bond smiles and lets his eyes run up and down Q’s body in a way that Q finds mildly disconcerting. He convinces himself that he is imagining things, but it does not stop him from running his cleaner hand through his hair, nervous in a way that he finds truly inexplicable. It _is_ only Bond, after all. 

”Of course, Q,” Bond promises, visibly amused. ”I shall keep it in mind for my next visit.”

”See that you do,” Q says, if a touch fussily, for a lack of anything better to say. 

He clears his throat and searches for something to say, anything, when Bond’s gaze moves to his right cheek and stays there. Before Q has time to react, Bond has reached out a hand and wiped at his skin with a fingertip. The touch does not linger, though Bond only retracts his hand enough to take out his handkerchief and then returns to deal with what Q instinctively guesses to be an oil stain, most likely. He flushes, not having expected that, and sort of wishes that his training had included how to deal with agents who don’t know when to keep their hands to themselves. He is feeling distinctly uncertain about the situation. Should he push the hand away, or allow Bond to fuss over him as he pleases? 

Not wanting to chance dirtying Bond’s expensive suit, Q soon chooses to stay put and let himself be cared for, all the while trying his best to ignore the way Bond’s undivided attention causes him to feel years younger and unsure in the way he last remembers feeling when he was a teenager facing his biggest crush. 

”007?” he utters, hesitant, when suddenly, the touch turns into a gentle caress.

”You have something on your face,” Bond tells him, wholly unnecessarily, and keeps his hand in place. 

”I have just spent an hour underneath the Aston, it is hardly surprising,” Q says, matter-of-fact, and takes a small breath through his nose. He wonders just how long he’ll be remaining there, now, unmoving under Bond’s touch and with all these confusing thoughts filling his mind, when he could be doing something more sensible instead. Or, if nothing else, finding out why Bond came to see him would probably suffice. 

Bond looks into his eyes. ”Hardly,” he agrees and, after a few moments of eye contact, finally pulls his hand away. Q swears he can feel the ghost of the touch linger far longer than he could reasonably expect, and he cannot help but bring his own fingers up to his cheek. He knows that there’s no way he’ll be any more of use the way he is now, cleaning-wise, but the instinct is still there. He makes a conscious effort to lower his hand and take a breath, and to get a grip of his emotions.

”So, um. What can I do for you today?” Q inquires, assuming the reason to be something easily dealt with. A spare gun, or perhaps a new wristwatch, those he can arrange for with minimal disturbance to his day. Even a request for some new tech to test he could handle with relative ease, given how his branch is currently well ahead of schedule. 

”You could join me for lunch,” Bond suggests, and it’s so far from what Q has expected to hear that he blinks, wondering if he had actually heard what he thought he did. 

”Lunch?” he parrots, trying to wrap his mind around the fact that Bond has apparently moved on from flirtations via comms into actual face to face, away-from-Six interactions. Or perhaps he hasn’t, perhaps he just wants someone friendly to share a meal with, one can never tell with Bond. Q doesn’t begrudge him for that, though he does wonder what exactly made Bond settle upon him.

”It is a bit early for that, though, don’t you think?” Q says, tone light.

Bond simply tilts his head and gives him a once over, and Q instantly feels uneasy, underdressed and uncertain all at once, wearing his overalls as he is and feeling altogether out of his element. He knows that he would feel better if only he was back to his regular work clothes, though, so he takes comfort in that. 

”It should give you ample time to shower and change, then, should it not?” Bond points out, not unkind, and adds, ”Unless, of course, you would prefer not to be seen in the company of someone like me?”

Q stares, because _really_? Bond has the audacity to say something like _that_ while looking like he has stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine? He shakes his head, just once, and gives in. 

”All right, give me half an hour and I’ll be ready,” he replies, not having the heart to deny Bond. Not that he’d have a convenient excuse to get out of this lunch that may or may not be intended as a date even if he wanted to (which he doesn’t, if he is honest with himself), and even if he did have such an excuse he’s fairly sure that Bond would find a way to circumvent it anyway. Best to just give in and enjoy food that does not come from the cafeteria or, in the form of leftovers, from his own fridge, as well as the unexpected but not unwanted company, he thinks to himself. 

Bond smiles. ”Excellent. I’ll wait for you in your office, then, shall I?” 

Q hides a sigh for he knows that Bond will either end up messing with something of Q’s that he should know better to leave well alone, or else he’ll just wander off to bother the minions and cause distractions where ever he walks. Neither option is especially agreeable, but Q is well aware that he is unable to derail Bond when he is physically not there, himself. 

So he gives a brief nod and says, ”All right, then. But please do try not to touch anything without explicit permission.”

Bond is clearly amused. ”Am I to take it as an order to keep my hands to myself?” he asks, and Q can hear the laughter in his voice.

”Well. Yes, I would much prefer that you did.” The admission comes easy, fuelled by all the times Bond has returned from his missions bringing back the mangled remains of his tech, if that. 

”I’m sure you would,” is all Bond says, however, and there is suddenly a hand at the small of Q’s back, guiding him towards the door. Q lets it stay there, without a word, and allows Bond to escort him back to the main branch. He leaves Bond in his office and hopes against all odds that when he returns, everything is still as it should be.

*

Q finds Bond in the middle of his branch, talking to a crowd of his minions that are gathered around him, their workstations long forgotten. By the looks of it, Bond is in the middle of sharing an adventure or several to his eager audience, all of whom are staring at him in various stages of wide-eyedness. It is also quite clear that none of them is a day over thirty, for it is mainly the younger technicians that are drawn to Bond and his stories. Most of the older ones have been part of the branch already before Q’s time, after all, and therefore probably more used to not letting wandering field agents distract them from their duties.

Q smiles and shakes his head, fondly amused. A Double Oh in their midst is still enough of a rarity, let alone Bond who is the most reveled of them all, that Q can understand the intrigue. (Though certainly 007 has been making an appearance more often, as of late, a fact that Q thinks bears some consideration.)

And well, at least it means that his office has been left largely untouched by Bond’s curious fingers. He hopes, anyway. 

”As fascinating as this all surely is, I believe some of you have work to do,” Q says when he can sense that the current story is drawing to an end. He smiles slightly at the obvious way his minions startle at his words, suddenly remembering themselves and where they are. Q brushes off the offered apologies and tells them to enjoy these rare instances, but not at the expense of their work. He watches them wander back towards their workstations and only then turns his attention to Bond.

Bond has, he quickly realises, used the time to less than subtly examine him. Q fights another flush and wins, just barely, and bites his lip as he worries over his choice of attire. Not that he had had much to pick from, having had to make his choices over the clothing (a pair of jeans and slacks as well as a cardigan and a sweater) he had in his locker. He had ended up choosing the slacks and the cardigan over the button-down shirt and tie he had been wearing before going to work on the Aston Martin, thinking that they would better match Bond’s suit than the jeans and sweater combination that was his other option. 

Besides, he has no idea what sort of place the man planned for them to go to for lunch, so better to be a tad overdressed than underdressed, he reasons. Not that he’d ever be overdressed next to Bond, obviously, but that’s a whole other matter altogether. 

”Yes, so. I believe I am ready now,” Q tells Bond once he thinks that enough is enough, and Bond nods. 

”Great. Then shall we?” Bond asks and honest to god offers him his hand like he is some sort of a… a _maiden_ to be courted and wooed. 

”007!” Q hisses, embarrassed, and glances around to see whether the minions are staring at them. (Of course they are.)

Bond, the bloody bastard, just smiles and patiently keeps holding out his hand. Just great, Q thinks as he reluctantly accepts it, not wanting to stand there in the middle of his brach like some kind of a wax figure for the rest of the afternoon. He has no doubt that Bond would have stood there for however long it took for him to give in, and Q simply does not need that. He is even now dreading the amount of gossip which already seems to be spreading, judging by the rapid typing of his staff. 

Bond then escorts him out of the branch and to the lifts. He does not let go of Q’s arm while they wait for one to arrive, and Q rolls his eyes but does not try and pull his arm free, either. He figures that the damage has been done already, so he might as well enjoy the gentlemanly conduct from the man he has for lunch company. 

”So where are we going, then?” Q asks, curious, and also to break the silence. ”I take it that you have somewhere in particular in mind?”

Bond nods. ”Naturally.”

”Am I going to be dreadfully underdressed?”

”Mm. Not dreadfully, no. Perhaps just a bit.” 

Q had guessed it so he was prepared for those words. ”Will _you_ be overdressed, though?” he inquires next, a touch of playfulness in his voice.

Bond smirks. ”I am never overdressed, Q.” 

Q rolls his eyes at that, openly and overdramatically. ”Of course you’re not.” 

The lift dings and the doors slide open before Bond has a chance to say anything else, so instead they just step in. Q makes to pull away his arm once the doors are closed again and no one can see them, figuring that it is as good a time as any, and half expects Bond to insist on continuing to hold his arm hostage. Bond, however, easily lets him go and raises an eyebrow at the look on Q’s face. 

Q sniffs. ”You could have skipped all of this playacting at my branch just now, couldn’t you?”

”And missed the chance for all of the delightful gossip? No way,” Bond grins. 

”Oh I see now, you did it to embarrass me in front of my staff, didn’t you?” 

Bond tilts his head. ”Embarrass you? No. Impress you? Certainly.” 

Q blinks. ”Oh, um,” he says, suddenly unsure. To claim that he was not impressed would be less than truthful, but he is not ready to admit to being the tiniest bit impressed, either. Thus, he finds himself curiously without anything to say. 

Mercifully, Bond changes the subject. ”You know how to use chopsticks, yes?” 

Q nods. ”I do. I use the ones you brought for me from Japan a lot,” he tells Bond, feeling more comfortable sharing it with the man than he had expected.

“Excellent, I have been craving sushi lately,” Bond says and continues, “There is a lovely little Japanese restaurant called Maruseki not too far from here that has a rather authentic feel to it. It even has its own tea room.” 

“That does sound lovely,” Q admits. Not that he’d know if the restaurant really felt authentic or not, having never been to Japan himself, but he knows that Bond has been there several times, and he trusts his judgement. 

Bond smiles slightly, and they remain quiet until the lift reaches their chosen floor and the doors slide open again. Bond leads Q to his car, a silver BMW Series 6 Gran Turismo that looks all shiny and new, and opens the passenger door for him. Q gets in with a murmured thanks and watches Bond circle to his own side of the car, only turning to fasten his seatbelt when he can hear the door opening. 

“So Q,” Bond says as he skillfully manoeuvres the car out of the garage and into the London traffic, “it has just occurred to me that I never asked about your morning.”

“My morning? It was mainly spent with the Aston Martin,” Q tells Bond, eyes on the passing scenery instead of the man next to him. “How about yours, though?” 

“It was somewhat bland,” Bond says. “But getting better as we speak. Much better, one might even say.”

Q hides his smile with a delicate movement of his right hand. “Careful there, 007,” he says, light and airy, “one might think that you’re getting a little rusty with your flirting.”

Bond laughs at that. “One might,” he agrees. “But then again, one might also be wrong.”

“Possible in theory, but highly unlikely,” Q counters, with a raised brow. 

And on and on they go, bantering back and forth, sharing smiles and covert glances, until they reach their destination. They get out of the car and walk side by side towards Maruseki, and Q feels comfortable in Bond’s company in the familiar way he is used to feeling when there are only the two of them awake on the comms and the night around them is quiet and filled with sleepy potentialities. Q never thought it could extend to real life like this, though now, stepping inside the beautiful restaurant with Bond a solid presence at his back, he thinks that he certainly should have. 

The waitress who takes them to their table is young and assuredly Japanese, and Q finds himself liking her soft politeness. She responds in kind when Bond talks to her in Japanese, smiles gently at the way Bond helps Q out of his parka (which does not make Q blush, but it’s a near thing) and pulls out his chair for him, and addresses them both in respectful English while giving them their menus. 

Once she has left to give them a few minutes to think about their drink orders, Q turns his attention to his menu. He needs a moment or two to become acclimated to the fact that yes, this certainly feels like a date, and no, he does not mind one bit. He is looking at the drink selection without really seeing anything, and gives a slight start when Bond calls out his name. 

”You look a little lost there, Q, everything all right?” 

”Oh, um, fine,” Q replies, sheepish. ”Just thinking. About what to drink. Um.” Inwardly he cringes, not impressed by the way he manages to sound like he’s nervous when he really is not. He is just… making mental adjustments to his perception of their relationship, that is all.

Bond looks concerned. ”You’re sure?”

Q nods. ”Absolutely. Um. Would you have any recommendations, perhaps?”

”Certainly. Or I could order for you?” Bond offers. 

”Well, all right,” Q acquiesces. He wonders what sort of a drink Bond would deem acceptable to start the meal with, and whether he would choose a vodka martini for himself in the customary Bond fashion. Or, perhaps that drink is saved for missions only, that could also be possible.

What Bond ends up ordering for them, however, surprises Q in its simplicity. He chooses chilled sake for the both of them, and thanks the waitress when she leaves to give them some minutes to look through the menu properly. 

Q leafs through the menu curiously. He has never been to a proper Japanese restaurant like this before (the ramen and sushi shop he visits from time to time doesn’t count as half of the time, he gets his food as takeaway anyway) so he takes his time reading through the descriptions of the dishes. Everything sounds delicious, and he is delighted to see so many new flavours of sushi next to his old favourites. Sushi as an appetiser is a given, after all Bond did share his cravings for it already in the car, so next he turns his attention to the main courses. 

”You’ve decided, Q?” Bond’s voice breaks his concentration and Q looks up to him, blinking. 

”Um. I think?” he says. ”And you?”

Bond looks amused, undoubtedly at Q’s unusual hesitancy. ”I have,” he affirms. He is about to say something more, but the return of the waitress with their drinks cuts him off. 

”Are you ready to order, sirs, or would you prefer to have a few more minutes to think?” she asks after she has placed their glasses on the table. 

”We’re ready,” Bond tells her. He gives his order (a selection of sushi along with miso soup as appetisers, and tonkatsu with rice as the main course) and then looks at Q. 

Q gives his own order (starting with sushi and miso soup, in an echo of Bond, and choosing okonomiyaki as his main course) and puts his menu down. When the waitress inquires about drinks, though, he is surprised to hear Bond requesting a bottle of different kind of sake, warmed this time, for them to accompany the main course. He had been thinking of settling for mineral water, himself, as it is the middle of the day and work still awaits him after the meal, but then he remembers that Bond has no such constraints. Well, he thinks to himself, perhaps if he only has a glass of sake and leaves the rest for Bond to finish. 

When the waitress leaves, Q turns his attention back to Bond and finds the man already looking at him. He blinks, and Bond smiles at him. 

“Have you tasted sake before?” Bond asks. 

Q shakes his head. “No, I haven’t.”

“Well, then you’re in for a new experience,” Bond says and raises his glass. Q does the same and, following Bond, takes a sip from his. He finds that he likes the taste, milder and fruitier than he had expected, but very nice. It is clear that Bond has chosen it carefully, and he imagines that it goes quite well with their appetisers.

“It’s nice,” Q says and puts his glass down. “I take it that you know all there is to know about sake, then?”

Bond smiles. “Of course, dear Q. Which is why you'll find that the one I chose pairs wonderfully with our sushi.” 

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Q says, and they spend the time until the first course arrives talking about sake and other memories Bond has of Japan.

The miso soup is just the perfect temperature to eat, and the selection of sushi Q has chosen proves to be as delicious as he has expected. He uses the chopsticks with little difficulty, though that Bond uses his with even greater proficiency is no surprise to anyone at all. 

“I noticed that you don’t have this one,” Bond says suddenly, indicating a broiled salmon nigiri with basil sauce. They have chosen different selections, so it is to be expected, Q thinks but nods anyway.

“You are correct.”

Bond has two, so he picks up one, using his fingers instead of his chopsticks, and offers it to Q. “Here,” he says, “it’s delicious.” 

Q is not exactly sure how he feels about Bond essentially hand feeding him, but it would be rude to decline, wouldn’t it? So, he accepts the offered piece of sushi and hopes that he isn’t blushing again. Surely that would not be too much to ask. 

“Delicious,” he echoes once he has finished it, because of course Bond is right. He always seems to be, when it’s about food.

Bond smiles and eats one, as well. Q forces his attention back to his own plate, from where he selects a cucumber maki. It is nothing exotic, but he likes it nevertheless. And there is certainly nothing wrong with cucumber, it is a staple vegetable in his own fridge, after all.

Bond, Q notices, has none of them. He contemplates on offering the agent one of his, in turn, but he isn’t quite sure if he feels comfortable enough to reciprocate just yet, a date or no date. Perhaps at a later time, somewhere a bit more private, he mentally concludes.

They finish their sushi and their first glasses of sake in pleasant conversation about various topics, not all of them food related, and several of them, to Q’s surprise, concern his cats. It seems that Bond is more curious about them than he has let on before. 

When the waitress comes to collect their empty plates, she brings along the container of the warmed sake and pours it into small glasses for them. Q is watching it all with curiosity as generally he tends to prefer, how should he put it, less sophisticated places to have lunch in. 

Not that there's anything wrong with having lunch at this particular restaurant, no. Q rather enjoys it, and so far the food and drink have been excellent. He has no doubt that the main course will also prove to be so. 

”Go on, Q, tell me what you think,” Bond says, once the waitress has gone. Q obediently takes a sip of his sake and determines that it, too, is excellent. 

”Well, it is certainly passable,” he quips. 

Bond laughs at that. ”Certainly,” he agrees, amused. ”I wouldn’t dream of offering it to you otherwise.” 

Q looks at Bond and thinks that this date has been lovely so far, and that he is glad that Bond asked _him_ for lunch and not someone else. His lunch break would have been so much more boring without this. 

The waitress soon reappears with their main courses. Q’s okonomiyaki, a type of savoury pancake, looks especially appetising. He has some difficulties in managing to cut it to pieces with his chopsticks, though, but it’s nothing he can’t overcome with a bit of help from the more experienced agent 007. 

Bond, naturally, has no problems with his own meal. He again offers Q a taste of his tonkatsu, and Q notices that this time it feels more natural to lean over and accept the offered piece. While he likes the deep-fried breaded pork, he is more than satisfied with his own choice of food. 

Q enjoys the food, the sake and the conversation. Bond makes for better company than he had expected, even after all the missions he has sat listening in on 007 seducing this mark or that, and Q is not surprised at all when he finds himself the focus of that familiar flirting. 

Once Bond notices that Q’s glass is empty, he goes to pour him more sake. Q tries to politely decline, citing work as his reason, while assuring the man that water would be more than enough for him for the rest of the meal. Bond, however, manages to talk him into accepting one more glass, at least, and Q can do nothing but concede defeat. At least he is a branch head and therefore if he happens to be the slightest bit tipsy upon returning to work, well. No one else necessarily needs to notice it, if he is clever enough about it. 

And he plans to be, especially since Bond imagines himself sneaky enough to pour him even more sake, thinking that he wouldn’t notice it. Of course Q notices it, how could he not, but he lets Bond think that he hasn’t. It won’t do to discourage the agents about their skills, after all. 

”So Q,” Bond says after they have both finished their meals and most of the sake, ”how would you feel about dessert?”

Q smiles slightly. ”I never tend to decline dessert, so I am feeling most positive about it,” he assures Bond.

”Perfect,” Bond says, ”the desserts here are definitely worth every penny.”

And so, when the waitress once more returns to collect their empty plates and inquires whether they would be interested in dessert, Bond nods and orders them a dessert platter for two, with a selection of bite-sized everything from the dessert menu, along with two cups of green tea.

”One cannot not have matcha when having a Japanese meal,” Bond tells Q, and Q agrees. He does like matcha.

”They have matcha flavoured cakes and ice cream here,” Bond continues, conversational. 

”Which we will soon be tasting, I’d assume?” Q guesses.

”Right you are, dearest Q.”

”Of course I am.”

Bond chuckles at that, and Q imagines that he looks fond. Or perhaps he isn’t imagining it at all, perhaps Bond does look at him fondly, right here and now. Stranger things have happened, and it isn’t like they aren’t in the middle of a nice date right now. 

Q, he thinks to himself, probably looks just as fond. 

The arrival of their dessert interrupts his thoughts, and Q looks at the big platter filled with all manner of deliciousness, a number of them matcha flavoured but others consisting of familiar favourites like chocolate and vanilla, and also new flavours like azuki beans and sweet potato. Q is certain that he will enjoy all of them.

Bond looks at him and smiles. ”Go on then, choose one,” he says, and Q pretends that he hasn't already decided that he wants to start with the matcha flavoured macaroon that has been calling his name ever since he first laid eyes on it. He makes a show of considering between three different options, but gives up shortly and reaches for the macaroon. 

After two bites, though, he notices the way Bond keeps looking at him and, on a whim, offers the remaining half to him. Bond accepts the half of the macaroon from his hand, and Q swears that he can feel the man’s tongue lick up whatever crumbs there are left on the tips of his fingers. 

This time, Q’s blushing is inevitable. 

They eat the ice creams next, not wanting them to melt, and Q finds that matcha ice cream is absolutely delicious. He decides that he needs to get more again in the near future. After those, they sample the different types of cakes and confections, sharing their opinions after each bite and discovering that while Bond favours chocolate over sweet potato and azuki beans, Q is partial to matcha. 

When all that's left on the plate is the single matcha flavoured macaroon, Q reaches for it and, without taking his eyes off of Bond’s, neatly bites off half of it and presents the remaining half to Bond. Bond takes a gentle hold of his wrist and eats the macaroon held between his fingers with infinite slowness. 

If Q has had any doubts about Bond’s intentions, that moment makes sure that they all evaporate. 

Afterwards, they don’t linger for longer than it takes to finish their tea, pay the bill (which Bond insists on dealing with; and Q, not wanting to break the mood, allows it), and put on their overcoats, before leaving the restaurant. Q fleetingly wonders whether Bond has drunk too much to be able to drive safely, but then remembers who he is dealing with and dismisses the thought as silly. Bond is much too experienced a driver to allow a couple of glasses of sake to negatively impact his driving, of that he is certain. 

And besides, he trusts Bond, more than he probably should. 

*

They reach Q Branch at a time when it is mostly empty, a circumstance of having finished their lunch before the end of the more conventional lunch hour. Q heads straight for his office and counts himself lucky that no one else sees the way Bond follows him in like some overgrown but mildly dangerous puppy.

(Mildly, because while Q has not received the training the Double Oh agents all have, he is in no way, shape, or form helpless, himself, and could doubtlessly defend himself using whatever he’d have at hand in the unlikely event of Bond attacking him with the intention of harming him.)

Q has barely had the chance to close the door when Bond does, indeed, attack him; however, all he does is secure Q between the door and his own body.

”You are aware, I trust,” Bond murmurs against the shell of his ear, ”of how long I have wanted to do this.”

Q lets out a squeak of surprise, pinned against the door of his office as he is. ”I most certainly am not.” 

“Really?” Bond sounds incredulous. “After all of the hints I've dropped?”

“You may have noticed,” Q says, words slow and carefully measured, “that I have a tendency to get lost in my work, so much so that I might miss even the most obvious of clues.”

“Ah,” Bond says, “there is that, of course.” And he lets his lips travel down on Q’s neck, light and gentle and intoxicating, before biting down on the base of it. Q makes a small sound at the back of his throat, though neither of them pays it any mind, not when Q’s hands find their way to tangle into Bond’s hair to keep him in place.

Q would be lying to himself if he claimed that he has never wanted this, that he has never wondered how it would feel to have Bond close this way. And since he has never been in the habit of lying to himself, there is no sense in starting that now, either. So, he does what any sane person would do in his situation: he enjoys the affection.

“Bond?” he says after a handful of moments of the agent being busy with his neck. “Not that I’m complaining, because I most certainly am not, but might I trouble you for an actual kiss sometime soon?” 

It’s not that Q is averse to love marks or biting in general - he actually loves it, especially being on the receiving end - but he is fully aware of where they are, and workplace definitely isn’t a place where he wants to explore _this_ any further. Their first kiss, however, that he is more than willing to share in his office.

“Certainly, my dearest Q, since you ask so nicely.” Bond complies easily and, as requested, moves back up to finally cover Q’s lips with his own. 

And the kiss? It’s well worth the teasing text messages he receives from Eve afterwards.


End file.
